


Oh John

by SoundShards



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Baptism Kink, Blasphemy, F/M, John tries to follow the Father's rules (and fails), PWP, Pastor Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Priest Kink, Sacrilege, absolute smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 11:55:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14748393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoundShards/pseuds/SoundShards
Summary: You want to fuck that smug righteousness out of John Seed.





	Oh John

You’ve never had much piety in you. Mama didn’t take you to church ‘cause she worked third shift, and flowery words printed on too thin paper always had a way of rippin’ in your rough hands. The idea of some unknown entity in the sky loving you despite your “sins” is sickly, a pretty tale told to settle fears of death. When Mama dies just before Christmas the year you turn twenty, you come to your own about that. The trailer’s sidin’ weeps rust, and the ceilin’ above your bed has a blooming leak in the shape of what might have been a heart. You sell the trailer and the quarter acre plot for two thousand bucks to a thin man with twitchy eyes and shaking hands.

You skip town before the grass has grown over her grave. You leave no flowers and you don’t stop by – there’s nothing left of her but rot. You’d been waitin’ tables at Johnny’s since you were sixteen, and as you pass it, you stomp the gas pedal and listen to your mama’s truck wheeze. The cigarette smoke clinging to the cheap upholstery smells like her, and you cry as merge onto 411 and you don’t stop till you’ve left Georgia for good. You head north, drive away from dropped g’s and twangs in people’s voices that only remind you what you’ve lost. You bar tend when you’re of age, you make do fine, but you never stay anywhere too long. You’ve never been one for conversation, and you learn to appreciate the silence of the road more than saccharine pillow talk.

You’re twenty-four when you cross the state line of Montana, but it’s a couple of more years before you wander into Hope County looking for just that. You’re tired of runnin’, tired of grab-ass, and you’re wonderin’ if maybe you’ll find some fuckin’ peace if you just _stop_ —that and your mama’s truck finally gives up the ghost on a back country road. The mountains are too tall to be Georgian, but they make your stomach roll as you squint against the sun at them. You walk your way to the main road you drove through earlier, a tattered bag slung across your back. You only go into that police station to tell them that your car bit the dust, but a man named Whitehorse sees something you never have. So you stay.

You don’t understand then why he hired a girl with no experience, no past to speak of, no words to give, but a week later you’re flying past a fucking statue that makes your eyebrows hit your hairline, and you suddenly get it. _Hope County is fucked_. The marshal is too eager, too cocky, and when you’re standing in a church for the first time in your life, watching the frenetic fervor in the pews, you’re thankful your mama raised you better.

“Rookie, cuff this son of a bitch,” the marshal commands, but you’re watching Joseph Seed, the proclaimed Father, as much as he’s watching you.

You don’t know why the marshal demanded they head out as soon as he arrived at the station. It was already dusk then, it’s full-on evening now, and the summers of Montana have nothing on those nights in Georgia— and you’re sure that’s why there are goosebumps rocketing across your skin underneath your still new uniform. You’ve paused too long when the marshal demands, “Rook, put the cuffs on him,” but you’re glancing beyond Joseph to the three lingering behind. They must be the siblings, and your eyes meet theirs briefly. Menace belies their compliance, and a surge of something like pettiness pushes you forward.

“Sometimes the best thing to do is walk away,” Joseph whispers as you lead him out of the church, a hand resting on his shoulder.

He’s relaxed beneath your touch, no trace of the tension coiled beneath your skin as the people around you cry out. There’s a flurry of activity as cultists launch, guns drawn, and you shove him in the helicopter with as much ease as you push a woman to her death. There is nothing inside you except the thundering pulse in your throat, and as he begins to sing, you think you might vomit—but soon everything is twisting and you _know_ you will—and then there’s nothing. 

 

And then there’s everything. You weakly grab at Hudson’s boot, you watch Pratt get taken, you don’t even see the Sheriff, and you can still hear the marshal’s fight. You wake up in Dutch’s bunker, and everything begins anew.

You’re used to not feeling much. You were never one to talk, not about the bullies or the blood dripping from their noses, or the bruises you covered under your shirt, and the Seeds remind you so much of the past and of the person you might have become. It reawakens something that died in your youth, and though you still don’t say much, you’re filled with a cold rage that leads you straight to the Seeds. You head southwest once you’re off Dutch’s island— to the youngest brother.

You don’t know much about the Seeds, don’t really care to beyond the ruin they’ve brought to the county, but when you first see John Seed’s advertisement on a TV, something pricks your ears and writhes uncomfortably beneath your skin. You forget about it entirely until he calls out to you on the radio and the horrifying sense of familiarity rushes up once more. It’s not until the two brothers are side by side down at the river, conversing in front of your hazy vision, that you recognize something of yourself in those boys. Your head spins, maybe from the Bliss and maybe from the realization, but when it’s just you and John and poor Hudson, you break your silence and ask, “Where are y’all from?”

He’s never heard you speak, but you see recognition briefly loosen the snarl on his face. He crowds you, tied as you are to the computer chair, and his hands clasp the arms of it just where your elbows rest. The whisper of skin against skin sets all the downy hairs on your body alight, and you’re staring into blue blue eyes. There’s malice in there and so much anger and confusion, and you know he doesn’t understand what Joseph sees that he would close the gates of Eden to him, _his brother_ , over someone like you.

He tells you your sin, but you know he’s wrong. It’s not wrath, it’s _lust_. Even as you wonder how you’ll get out of this mess, you’re honest enough with yourself to admit that the youngest Seed brother checks all of your boxes. Not too tall for your 5’2” stature, crystal blue eyes, dark hair, a thick beard, and fuck yourself if you can’t detect that Georgian drawl despite the iron of his education. The tattoos are just a bonus. He’s a sick fuck, and the way you like it rough is different from how his blade digs into your flesh, but damn if your breath doesn’t catch when he gets close. He demands, he threatens, and he’s still stupid enough to leave you alone for thirty seconds.

As you run from his peggies, you linger on the idea of choices and the way his hands felt on your body. It’s a while before you return to his region—you meet his oldest brother and their adopted sister before that, and you’re too busy to think about him and his electric eyes. But once you’re back and it’s his voice taunting you on the radio again, it’s suddenly all there is. When Sharky comments that y’all should just fuck already, you think you just might. It’s not that he isn’t a monster (because he definitely is), it’s just that admitting he’s gorgeous for a sick fuck and maybe going for a spin doesn’t hurt anyone. When Hurk tells you one of the cult rules, “no fornicating,” your interest spikes. You wonder if such laws apply to even Joseph’s brothers, especially _John the Baptist_ , the preachin’ man. You mull on it one night when you’re alone in the woods, and when you conclude that they do, you switch to John’s frequency.

You hear the peggies speak in what they think is code and learn he’s leading a nighttime baptism just like he tried for you. Liquid heat scores through your abdomen and settles low. You slink down to the river to wait and to watch. He faces the inky water, surrounded by two bodyguards, and there are four people standing on the brink of whatever Eden’s Gate has to offer.

The long coat he normally wears is gone, and the dark blue shirt and vest combo are on full display. The sleeves are rolled to his elbows, tattoos barely visible from your vantage point, and though you’d see better through your scope, you’d rather not think about the duty attached to your weapon. You just might change your mind if you actually thought about the consequences of this premeditated fucking. He’s all charisma tonight— wide, gentle smiles that bare brilliantly white teeth, lips curling around soft words—and his hands on the newly-born peggies are almost reverent. He is nothing like the John from the bunker and this very river just weeks ago, and you wonder if this John is a fake or if he’s just a contradiction. The river cuts a valley out of a mountain, and his voice bounces and echoes in the stillness of the night.

“We must atone – for only then may we stand in the light of God and walk through his Gate unto Eden.”

His enunciation is crisp, hardly any Georgian drawl present. He sounds like a preacher, though, like someone who fully believes in Joseph and the other Father, but you remember the way he snakes around you as you tear apart his territory. He’s… ravenous, wanting what the Father tells him he cannot have, what the Father tells him he must save lest he be cast out. The humid air that hangs by the river condenses on your skin. You watch John take each person by the hand, and he leads them into water your increasingly flushed body suspects must be delightfully cold. 

As the last person rises from the water, all sense washed away with their sins, you’re breathing heavily. He’s still speaking the practiced words of a man of God—the timbre of his honeyed voice vibrating in your ears. There’s a fluttering beneath your hips, between your legs, and liquid is slowly seeping into the fibers of your underwear. The Montana night is _hot_ , sweat collecting on the small of your back and neck. You long for the cool bite of the river below.

You’re deep into land John still controls, no ally within reach, and you think that must be why he dismisses his followers and his guards with a lazy flick of a hand. The shivering newborns are herded into the bed of a pick-up that roars into the distance. Only one vehicle remains, one you assume must be John’s personally. You ignore an inner voice whispering that now is an excellent chance to plant a slug in the younger Seed sibling. Instead you stand your rifle against a tree, and you walk down the hill toward the one sin you’re willing to face.

“I’m from Rome,” you tell his back as he stares down the river.

He doesn’t jump, but his shoulders tighten as he straightens from a relaxed slouch. Always hiding.  He turns slowly, and you finally see his face again. The darkness has only deepened since your arrival, but even in the twilight his eyes are bright. The prettiest blue you’ve ever seen, damn him, framed by an impeccably trimmed beard and combed back hair. He’s not exceedingly tall, but you still have to tilt your head, just the hint of a bared throat, to meet those eyes. There’s hardly any fury in them this time—you’ve been wreaking havoc elsewhere recently.

Yet there’s surprise, too, in furrowed lines and a tight jaw—  “So are we.” The words are carefully spoken, the syllables polished before their exit, and you hate it. You’ve been runnin’ from Georgia almost a decade, and yet here you are, facin’ a relic of your old life, and you fuckin’ miss the sound of your mama’s long words and short sentences. You wanna rip the education right outta him, wanna hear the southern drawl he must hate to hear from your own lips. You’re shocked, too—you wonder if he remembers Johnny’s, if he ever went to that school up on the mountain, if this river reminds him of the Coosa. You think about fate and the universe and your mind finally rattles onto the idea of God, of divine guidance leading you Romans to this moment.

“That’s fuckin’ odd,” you say instead of all that.

He hums a short note of agreement, nodding. A pause—tense—and you faintly, weakly, wonder if this is a mistake. His hand twitches to the gun you saw up on the hill, tucked tantalizingly into his waistband, but you’re already there. Hands that were too rough for too thin pages never learned softness, and you pull his wrists into the mere inches between your bodies.  The digits are ice within your feverish ones, and you hook them firmly so that you can slip a hand round his trim side and toss the gun into the bushes.

“I’m unarmed.”

It’s meant to pacify the blazing anger, but he snaps back, “You’re never unarmed, Deputy.”

Standing this close to him is everything you never wanted it to be. He’s simultaneously too hot and too cold, damp to the waist and chilled by the night air. His anger is barely controlled, heavy breaths falling across your face in long puffs, and your knees quake at the moist air threading down your shirt. It’s just a flannel button-up, barely fastened past the first swell of your breasts, and that lace bra you found a couple of weeks ago, the one you squirreled away when Jess wasn’t lookin’, is pushing what cleavage you got out the opening of it. You’re too hot, despite the cool bite of his fingers, and all of the heat is focused between your legs. Your mind is fuzzy this close to him, sensing that chaotic strength so tightly wound. You wonder if he can see how far blown your pupils must be, if he can smell your _lust_.

“John the Baptist died a martyr, you know,” he spits at you, fury writhing beneath his scarred, inked skin.

“I’ve never had much time for the Bible,” you say, “and I didn’t come here tonight to kill you.”

John doesn’t say anything, doesn’t relax, but he stops fighting you. Those eyes are boring into you, _waiting_. You don’t say anything either, don’t relax, but you stop fighting, too. You stand on a precipice, paths leading forward but never back, and you inhale, breathe in gun powder and expensive cologne, and think _fuck it_.

“I’m here to confess, father,” you murmur, looking up at him as innocently as you can with your panties so damp they’re sticking to your pants. He controls his response—except his pupils eat those electric irises, and you know you’ve got him.

“My brother is the Father, I’m just the Baptist.” He swallows repeatedly, gaze dark, and he’s trying to distance himself from his reaction, trying to control what you gave up tryin’ weeks ago. You delight in it. Heat sparks between your legs, unbearably sensitive, and you kick a noise back down your throat when he moves you so suddenly that the seam of your jeans rubs against your clit. His hands are free now, gripping your upper arms with a tightness that makes you shiver.

“But I’m ready to hear your confession,” he purrs the last word, smugness replacing rage and lighting a smile on his face.

You want to sully his pristine righteousness, want to fuck him in his pews. “Are you not a preacher, John? Will I not be a child of your flock?”

“Of course, my child,” the way his voice melts over the words should be sacrilegious, “but Joseph is our Father. You can call me John, Deputy.” He pauses on your moniker, then says, “And what can I call you?”

He’s polished and perfect tonight, falling back on the reserve of a lawyer.

“Don’t call me anythin’. I won’t be the same after tonight anyway, so why bother keepin’ the name?” What you don’t tell him is that you won’t want to remember the way your name sounds on his lips after tonight. You can’t tell if he’s pleased or bothered by your deflection, but it doesn’t really matter when he edges you closer to the water. You planned this moment watching him earlier, pondered scenarios and words that would wreck the celibate Baptist.

“John,” you sigh, lips curling around the letters, “will you tell me again the rules of the project? Just so ’m sure I know what’m getting’ myself into.”

You never intend to follow any of them, so you focus instead on the way his full lips, partially hidden by his beard, and the sheen of perfect teeth behind them form the words. He says, “no fornicating,” and you feel wicked about corrupting the sanctity of this moment for him, for the project, and it’s _delicious_.

“Is it hard to follow them?” You ask with vile intent, hidden by a slow blink, and he’s so _fuckin’ smug,_ grinning wide.

“It is not so for the heralds of the Father, but many of our children struggle. It is the way of the Lord to test your desire for salvation.”

 _That’s not what I’ve heard, John_ , you think. _People say you used to be wild_. _People say you used to drink and party and fuck_, _that you were all lust and gluttony_.

You don’t think a hunger like that can be hidden just because Joseph told him to, you don’t think a man with as much _pride_ as John takes orders as well as the Father would like—you remember that flash of fury the last time you were here at the river with John—and you relish the bite of his hands as he holds your waist in one and your shoulder in the other. You want to take his haughty virtue and flush it down the river; you want his mouth on yours and his hands on your hips. You want to fuck every semblance of holiness out of him.

There are flames between your thighs and there is warmth dispersing into your skin through the firm hold John has on you.

He speaks softly, “You must atone – for only then may you stand in the light of God and walk through his Gate unto Eden”

His face is alight with his holy duty, and you’re almost panting, his face so close that your breaths are mingling. Your thoughts stutter and start, foggy. You spare a moment of clarity to wonder just how fucked you are that _this moment_ is what’s had your pants soaked for weeks.

He walks you backwards, and you hiss at the cool water lapping relief at your ankles. Unsure where to place your hands, they fall limp at your sides. You descend the river bank until you’re submerged to your waist, his hand strong and warm against the cold bite of the rushing water. The flannel you’re wearing is heavy soaked with water, and it drags low, the slack pulled with the current. The left cup of your bra is fully bared, at least half of the right, and the flesh spilling out of them on full display—you barely glance down, choosing instead to watch John. He notices immediately, hyperaware of your exposure. His tongue darts out to moisten his lips. He swallows hard, glances heavenward, and you’re on fire. His hands shift, one in the middle of your back and pressing hard into the clasp of your bra, and the other rising to your face.

“What sins do you confess?” His voice is pitched low, the syllables catching on something in his throat and coming out ragged. John prepares to lower you into the water, but your hands, once limp across your belly, grasp his vest tight. You pull him close, drinking in the surprise in those damn blue eyes. Your mouth parts in a slow, wide smile—“Lust,” you whisper—and then your lips crash against his.

His mouth is soft, slack with shock, and you grin into the chaste kiss, your bunched cheeks tickled by his beard. A hand slips from his vest up the back of his neck, carding through the downy hair at its base, and your tongue darts out to lick the seam of his lips. You’re ablaze with the knowledge that this is the _holy water_ where peggies are born, and you gasp against his mouth. He still isn’t responding, his hands frozen on your hips where they’d instinctually steadied you. You open your eyes to find his own scrunched closed. Beneath your thumb, you can feel his pulse thrumming quickly.  You pull his bottom lip into your mouth and with a wicked grin, bite it— _hard_.

John groans quietly, his hands squeezing your hips till it’s painful and then a little more, and you press close to him. Your other hand slides down to clutch the silk shirt at his waist. His stupid fucking belt buckle digs deliciously into your belly, and the hard line pressing lower is thick and warm despite the cold water and the layers. You really are panting now, and his tongue slides through your open lips. You catch it tight, scraping teeth along it and sucking hard. He yanks it back, pressing your mouths together, and then forces you open again. You two fight for control, pressing and pushing, and your teeth clack together. Your flesh is hot despite the chill of the water, and you nearly keen when John’s hands slip up your shirt to rub against bare skin.

His hands have more calluses than you would have expected, and you’re so sensitized that you’re scrubbing your hips against his without shame. You drag his shirt out from those black jeans, your hand scrabbling up the tight flesh of his stomach. You drag stubbly nails down, reveling in the slight bumps of his abs and his hiss of pleasure. John is twitching against your lower belly, and you shudder. The tension coils tighter between the two of you, the heat flaring.

You snap open the buttons to his vest. When it drapes limply, you fiddle with the fastens to that blue shirt, considering—with a hard yank, the buttons fall into the river with quiet _plops_. His torso is bared to your appraising eyes. He is scarred and colored, his sin on full display before you, and he’s _gorgeous_. You tell him such, the words rough, and he smiles down at you, smug. For all his wild rage, he is slow to undo your own shirt, lingering—and instead it is you who feels unhinged. You want this stupid man who shares your hometown and your accent, and you gasp when rough hands scrape against the soft flesh of your breasts. John’s lithe fingers ghost over your chest, fleeting touches that make you shake, and you press your torso into his grasp.

He’s too slow, too reverent for the monster you expected, so you goad him, “Are you going to fuck me, John?”

His hands still, eyes darting to yours. There’s guilt in those baby blues, shame and lust in direct conflict with one another – his hands retreat but his dick throbs against you. You know this isn’t your side of town, that his men might return or be watching from the woods like you did, but your mind is foggy with desire and you just don’t give a shit right now. With unsteady hands, you push off the straps of your bra, dragging the cups down to expose your breasts. The night air is cool against heated flesh and you think about the blasphemy of baring yourself in this way in this river, and John watches your nipples pebble. There’s far more longing than chagrin in his gaze, but still he hesitates.

You snatch his hand within yours, calluses scratching against one another, and you wrap his twitching hand around a breast. He’s breathing irregularly, soft little pants that tickle your face. A finger barely brushes against a tight nipple, and pleasure sparks down your belly. Your eyelids flutter, you gasp. There’s something coiled tightly inside you, grasping and clutching at nothingness, and you nearly writhe against John, nearly _beg_ for him to fucking touch you.

His chuckle is dark and low, and the swift pinch to your nipple makes your knees buckle. You’re desperate, you’re showing too much and you can’t make yourself care as you follow him out of the water to the bench seat of his truck. You clamber up first, noting with heavy-lidded eyes that the windows are tinted beyond what must be legal. It’s clean, meticulously so, and it smells musky and sharp like his cologne. John slides in beside you, the slam of the door firm and loud and you wonder if you should be afraid. He leans forward to crank his truck, setting the air conditioning, and before he’s fully settled, you’re straddling him. Your clothes are wet and constricting, but you can still feel the ridge of him beneath you.

You shrug off the damp flannel, letting it fall to the floor boards only to be followed by your bra, his vest, his shirt—you’re gasping into his mouth, inhaling his breath. The roar of the air conditioner spits cold air across your wet back, and you shiver at the contrast of his hot hands as they pinch and pull. He brushes across the implant in your arm, rubs it gently and pauses, “I’m clean.”

You press your lips against his beard, trailing kisses up to his pierced ear. You fiddle the earring with your tongue, savor the way his breath hitches, and whisper, “Me too.” Your jeans are too tight to relish the way his hips are lifting against yours, so you rise up onto your knees. He unbuttons and yanks them down, scoring trails of heat down your clammy thighs. Clumsily, you lift one leg to work the material down to a knee, stuttering starts and stops until you’re finally free of the denim. John’s belt clinks noisily in the cab of the truck as you drag the zipper of his pants down. You lift up again, watch him with a lip seized between your teeth as he shimmies the material down to his knees, lifting legs free.

You press your hips down, the hot and wet between your thighs meeting the hard and silky linking his. Every sensation previously dulled by the two layers of jeans is now vivid and overwhelming. You rub your clit against the firm ridge of his cock, shuddering and gasping when he thrusts upwards. There’s pain in the wet drag of cotton, and you revel in the dizzying mix. You want his tongue against your pussy, his dick in your mouth; you want John behind and above as he stammers scripture until he spills. You want every filthy thing you can imagine, every corruption of the man you’re rutting against, but you know you can’t hold out for it. Your cunt is grasping at nothing, weeping angrily, and weeks of avoidance and planning have culminated in tonight.

With quick, shaky movements, you peel your underwear off and toss it on top of the growing pile. Before you can settle on his legs, John’s fingers are pressing between trimmed lips. The first pass across your clit nearly makes you come—it’s so intense, so _fucking good_ that you’re shuddering. His fingers are cool against the heat of your cunt, which greedily pulls them in. His mouth abruptly catches a nipple, sucking in time with the pull of his fingers. You’re overwhelmed, a sharp cry falling from swollen lips. You scramble for balance, catching his shoulders. The tip of a middle finger brushes the leather cord holding John’s bunker key—then two hands are circling both the front wall of your pussy and your clit, and you’re mindless.

The pleasure coursing through your body is severe in its power, such that you’re moaning and gasping—almost sobbing for it to never end even as you feel like you might be destroyed. Your eyes are shut, riding his fingers, edging closer and closer to the precipice when he abruptly stops. Fury fills the empty space in your pussy, and you snarl at John’s self-satisfied grin. You reach for his underwear, yanking the material down until you can finally, _fucking finally_ grasp him. Silken hardness, leaking and swollen—he’s thicker than you thought he’d be.

Your thighs are already quivering as you hover and then slowly sink onto his dick. You’re so slick that it’s hard to control the descent. There’s a dull burn as you fully stretch, and you revel in it, pressing harder and faster until he’s bottomed out. He’s barely breathing, lids half covering his eyes, and there’s red mottling under his skin that’s spreading down from his neck.

You rest your forehead against his, an unthinking parody of Joseph Seed affection, and his cock twitches within you. You shiver. Those shocking irises are but a sliver, swallowed by blown pupils. You start slowly, leisurely lifting and sinking back down. Low and rough, you ask, “What was that rule—no fucking?”

His hips snap up into yours at your words, hands that were light on your hips hardening into a vise. Knowing that this spot will forever remind him of going against the Father’s word, knowing that every baptism that takes place here will always be tinged with this memory, makes your hips move faster. You’re starting to breathe heavily, thighs burning under the strain of meeting his pace. You fall in and out of sync, chasing some unseen peak. Your skin is damp with sweat, and the friction of his cock sliding in and out of you makes you gasp, “What, ah, would _Joseph_ think of this?”

John growls low, pulling out and slinging you onto your back across the seats. The impact forces the breath out of your lungs and you suck in air noisily, eagerly spreading your legs. You want his fury, his _wrath_. He enters you, a hand furiously circling your clit, and a loud moan escapes from deep in your throat without permission. You’re embarrassed by it and the smug chuckle that follows, a dark pink flush spreading far beyond what’s normally seen. John’s leaning over you, eyes following your breasts bouncing with every forceful thrust, and you pull him by the neck toward you. You kiss him with nipping teeth and nails scoring down his back. With every push, he shoves your body farther up the seat until your head is rubbing painfully against the plastic of door. Your toes curl at the heady mixture.

“I never took ya for a quiet lover,” you confess as you wrap your legs around his hips, calves splayed against powerful thighs. The muscles bunch and stretch as he moves inside of you.

“You’ve spoken more tonight than I’ve heard outta ya in months,” he grunts.  His accent is on full display, and your pussy clenches hard at his voice. He notices, a slow grin curling his lips. “Do you want me to _talk_ to ya, deputy?”  (You’re sure that you’ll never be able to forget that sinful way your moniker had spilled out of his mouth while he fucked you.)

You huff a laugh that turns into a breathy moan when he angles his thrusts up.

“All ya hafta do is say _yes_ ,” he whispers, leaning to suck a nipple into his mouth. It’s like there’s a chord connecting your nipples to your clit, and every textured pass of his tongue strums it. His finger is unrelenting in its pace, propelling you higher as he jerks his hips against yours. Your breath is stuttering now, coming and going fast as you begin to flay open. He bites down— hard— and you’re lost.

“Yes yes _yes_ ” you chant against his shoulder. You’re shaking and shivering as your cunt clutches at him, slowing his thrusts into tight drags that are too much too soon but his finger hasn’t stopped circling your sore clit, mouth still sucking and nipping, and you’re crying now as you rush back towards the cliff you’ve just fallen off of. It hits hard and fast, and you sink your teeth deep into his skin as you ride out your second orgasm.

John’s hips are furiously pumping, and your own push back to meet him. His honeyed skin is darkened with exertion, sweat condensing. You lick a stripe up his neck, savoring the salty bite as his hips begin to falter in their tempo. His breathes in hard pants, that flush spreading down his tight belly, and you moan softly, “Come in me, father.”

He groans loudly, deeply, and spasms, warm seed filling you as he weakly thrusts. John falls against you, squishing you into the truck’s cushions. You relax your legs, coiling them around the back of his.

Languor is curling through your veins, chasing the last vestiges of your previous rage. You’re spent and satisfied in a way you hadn’t realized you’d missed, and the furious thrum of his pulse against your skin is comforting. Your lids are heavy and so is he, but his weight is crushing and calming as he slowly softens within you. You’ll give yourself a few minutes to savor the rush of endorphins and the sweaty press of your bodies before you start running.

**Author's Note:**

> They're not related! They just hail from the same town, which is coincidentally where I went to college. 
> 
> I purposefully made the Southern dialect come and go to indicate that these are two people who have tried to either forget or hide their roots.
> 
> Also, as to why John didn't question the Deputy about her very sudden change of heart? Let's just go with what Addie says. ;)


End file.
